


Just twin fire signs

by westminsterabi



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/F, FemJohn, Femlock, Gen, Genderswap, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-28
Updated: 2015-07-28
Packaged: 2018-04-11 18:04:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4446362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westminsterabi/pseuds/westminsterabi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by a headcanon posted by @crimsonwinter. It's the first day of Year 13, and Sherlock Holmes is entranced by a new girl in her Chemistry class. A fluffy Taylor-Swift listening session ensues. teen!fem!lock. Rated Mature for language. Really gay. ;3</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just twin fire signs

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [headcanon](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/132848) by crimsonwinter. 



“So this is what love feels like,” Sherlock whispered in Redbeard’s ear, half hoping he understood. He was on her stomach, gazing at her with those understanding puppy eyes (He was eight, but still. Puppy eyes.) and that big dog smile.

 

She sat up and frowned. Do dogs even smile? She decided she didn’t care.

 

“Can you keep a secret?” Her eyes shifted over to the door, knowing that now was probably an opportune moment for Mycroft to barge in with some pretext about needing something out of his old room (as if it hadn’t been Sherlock’s for half a decade). Ever since he’d come home three months earlier, done with his L.L.M. and American J.D., the tension in the house had been almost palpable, not because of her parents but mostly because her tolerance for her brother’s bullshit had sort of diminished since he’d been at uni—six years now.

 

He talked about nothing but how successful he was and how proud he was of himself, the narcissistic asshole. Every conversation turned into some diatribe about jobs in government, how intelligent _Mr Cameron_ was (never mind that they’d always been a Labour family; it was like fucking Family Ties, which Sherlock only knew about because a friend of her parents had made some joke) and how quickly he expected to be promoted.

 

“Mycwoft’s a fucking arsehole,” said Sherlock, baby-talking and rubbing Redbeard under the chin. Mycroft aside, the most extraordinary thing had happened that day. Second year at college, she didn’t expect much to happen on the first day except some chat about AS-level marks and UCAS. As if she cared.

 

There’d been a new girl in her Chemistry class. John “the sonogram was wrong and my parents weren’t creative” Watson, who was clearly so used to giving this explanation that it fell from her lips like hymns did for churchgoers. Sherlock had overhead her telling someone, and she’d made eye contact with Sherlock as she sat down, and something had snapped into place.

 

 _You are so gay,_ said something in the back of her mind.

 

_Well, that explains a lot._

 

Sherlock pulled out a pencil and tapped it nervously against a blank page on her notebook, just for something to do. She’d never been the romance-novel reading type, not even when all the girls her age were buying Twilight and taping posters of Robert Pattinson on their walls. She clicked a piece of lead into place and started drawing the molecular formula of cholesterol, just for something to do.

 

Who was this girl? Mycroft was so much better at reading people than she was; it was practice, of course. He’d had seven more years on the planet that she had, but she still ground her teeth every time she deduced something with a ten-second lag or misinterpreted some bit part.

 

_Focus, Sherlock. You know the principles._

 

She chewed on the end of her pencil. Okay, subtlety. She glanced over at John. Rugby player, that much was obvious from her build—or was it football? How could she be so sure—no, definitely rugby. (It was the arms.) April birthday, most likely, or was that just a guess? Moved here from…Buckinghamshire? Perhaps Aylesbury? Definitely because of a parent’s career, mostly likely the father. She was tempted to ask, just to test her deduction, but no, that would probably unnerve her. Besides, she had to pay attention in this class; she needed this instructor to write her a good reference, or else her application to Imperial would be sunk.

 

The bell rang, and John leaned forward on her elbow, meeting Sherlock’s eye with a smirk.

 

Sherlock’s heart skipped a beat.

 

_What will Mycroft say?_

 

Of all the times to be thinking of her stupid brother. As if it were any of Mycroft’s business. Sherlock started drifting toward the door when she felt a nudge at her elbow. Her eyes skated over the space above John’s head before she noticed how short she was—five-foot-two, at the very most. Her presence had seemed larger than that.

 

John ran a hand through her chin-length blonde hair and looked at the ceiling.

 

“Er…do you have lunch now?”

 

“Yeah,” said Sherlock, her breath somehow trapped in her chest. _Holy shit._ “Yeah, I do.”

 

“Would you, er, maybe…” she trailed off, stroking the hair at the nape of her neck. _Freshly shaved,_ Sherlock noticed. She swallowed, pulled her hand away from her hair— _nervous habit,_ thought Sherlock with delight—and continued, her voice a little louder now, “Would you want to maybe sit with me? I don’t know anyone around—I mean actually never mind, you probably have friends you want to sit with, sorry, it’s a stupid suggestion, dunno why I thought of asking you, you just seemed—“

 

“I don’t have any friends,” said Sherlock abruptly. Which wasn’t untrue. Of course, she had those acquaintances that all girls had, because sitting alone just made one’s space sexual harassment central, but none of them knew her very well and she didn’t even have their phone numbers. They were just warm bodies filling up space in the canteen, chatting about school and boys while Sherlock stayed silent. “You can sit with me.”  Her hands were shaking, and she shoved them into the pockets of her trousers.

 

They got lunch together, making small talk in the line, (John was from Milton Keynes, and _had_ moved because of her father’s job), sliding their trays along while John loosened her tie. “Ugh, this thing is like a noose.” (Attended school without a uniform, noted Sherlock smugly.) Sherlock had always been terrible at chatting, but everything came naturally this time. They set their trays down at a table.

 

“So, got a boyfriend?” asked John casually. Sherlock blinked.

 

“Yes, and his name is Chemistry,” said Sherlock with a snort. “Boyfriends aren’t really, ah, my area.”

 

“Oh. Yeah, me neither. I had one back in Milton Keynes, but I was moving and…” she made a gesture with her hand that said exactly what had happened between them. She licked her lips and made a little popping noise with them—another nervous habit, Sherlock noted. John ruffled her hair again.

 

“I actually don’t think I got your name. The instructor must have said it but I forgot.”

 

“I doubt he did; you would have remembered. It’s Sherlock.”

 

“Wow, even worse than John. I can’t imagine that was an easy one in primary school.”

 

“I was Shirley for four years,” admitted Sherlock with a grimace. “Then I realized that Shirley made me sound like some kind of old maid, and I decided a weird name was better than one that hasn’t aged gracefully.” She slipped a finger in-between her collar and tie, and loosened it absentmindedly, like John had. She’d said more than she’d meant to.

 

She couldn’t quite remember what they’d talked about after that, Sherlock had been too concentrated on—

 

Her train of thought was interrupted by Mycroft barging in to find Sherlock gazing at her ceiling vacantly and stroking Redbeard on his belly.

 

“Don’t tell me you’ve found some boy?” asked Mycroft exasperatedly, clearly having made a deduction. He rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and unbuttoned his collar, scratching the (already balding, Sherlock noted with glee) crown of his head.

 

Sherlock giggled. “Girl, actually.”

 

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Oh, so this is your new form of rebellion, is it?”

 

Sherlock’s expression hardened. “Shut the fuck up.”

 

“That’s a pound in the swear jar.”

 

“Shut the fuck up, you fucking arsehole. You’re a cuntbag.” Redbeard started wagging his tail more vigorously.

 

“Oh, you wiked that, didn’t you?” she made a little kissy noise in Redbeard’s direction, just to annoy Mycroft. “You wike it when I call Mycwoft vulgar names, don’t you?”

 

“Honestly, Sherlock. Grow up.”

 

“No, you grow up,” said Sherlock with a sneer. “Supporting the fucking Tories, you’re an honest-to-god sellout. Stop caring about just yourself and start caring about the rest of the country, yeah? Like maybe your fucking little sister.” She rolled towards the wall.

 

“I had no idea you were so politically aware.”

 

“I’m not. Get out. Why’d you even come in here?” She heard the door shut. Her phone pinged.

 

_Message: **John Watson**_

_So, lunch again tomorrow?_

 

Sherlock smiled to herself and pressed the phone to her chest. _Of course,_ she typed out. She rubbed Redbeard’s belly again and pressed ‘Send’. She rolled back away from the wall and grabbed her earbuds from her nightstand, plugging them into her phone and hooking them into her ears in one fluid motion.

 

“What should I listen to, Redbeard?” She opened the music app and scrolled through the artists. To hell with it. She put ‘1989’ on shuffle-repeat.

 

_Ah ah ah…ah ah ah, ah ah, ah ah / Stand there like a ghost / Shaking from the rain / She’ll open up the door / Say “are you insane?”_

The beats started climbing and thumping harder, and Sherlock started bobbing her head, mouthing along the words to the chorus. “And that’s how it works,” she whispered, “that’s how you get the girl.” Redbeard whined and dropped his head onto Sherlock’s stomach, sniffing a bit. “Oh, you big baby,” said Sherlock, giggling. Mycroft’s stings floating away with the guitar chords of ‘We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together’.

 

 

Sherlock couldn’t remember what they’d talked about after boyfriends. She’d asked John about the rugby at one point, but more subtly. She’d said something like “So, do you go in for any sport? You seem the type.”

 

“Yeah,” John had said. “Rugby, actually. There was a girls’ league in Milton Keynes. Do you know if there’s one here?”

 

“Probably. I don’t know.”

 

“What about you? Any sport? You _don’t_ seem the type.”

 

“Diving, actually,” Sherlock said with some trepidation, chewing on some unidentifiable piece of meat.

 

“ _You?_ Really?” John's eyebrows rose. She must have realised how her words had sounded because this was quickly followed with a blush. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend. I just…was surprised, that’s all.”

 

“Most people are.”

 

“Could I ever go to one of your competitions?”

 

Sherlock blinked. “You’d want to do that?”

 

“Sure. I’ve never actually seen diving before. Except, you know, on the telly.” She bit into a piece of broccoli and made a face. “The Olympics, that kind of thing.”

 

“Well, I guarantee I’m nowhere near that good,” said Sherlock, pushing her food around with a fork.

 

“Yeah, but I want to see it for real. I bet you’re spectacular.”

 

Sherlock’s face turned plum red. She looked down at her food. “Why would you say that?”

 

“Dunno,” said John. “You just seem really passionate about things. Like you’d quit if you weren’t any good, and you wouldn’t give up until you were the best.”

 

Sherlock turned even redder, if that was possible.

 

“I’m sorry,” John said quietly. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you.” (Younger sibling, Sherlock deduced, balance of probability on apologising for embarrassment)

 

“No, it’s fine, you’re fine.” She swallowed and some of the colour drained out of her face. She looked back up from her food.

 

“So anyway, where are you applying to uni?” (Ambitious, wants to talk about uni, probably planning on medicine judging by A-Level course of study and family background)

 

John perked up and grinned. “UCL’s my top choice. After that maybe Edinburgh or Imperial. I want to be a doctor, maybe do some good in the world. What about you?” She shoved another piece of broccoli into her mouth, as if trying to make it disappear as quickly as possible.

 

“I’m going to Imperial.”

 

“You say that as if it’s a sure thing.”

 

“It will be if I have my way.”

 

“See, that’s what I mean. You know what you want, and you just go after it. There’s no dancing around it with you. I bet you’re an excellent diver.”

 

Sherlock closed her eyes and tilted her head down. “I—I don’t know what to say.”

 

“It’s a compliment. You don’t have to say anything.”

 

Sherlock pulled her hair back and twisted it into a bun, just to have something to do. She pulled an elastic off her wrist and secured it, but a few tendrils fell out and coiled around her face.

 

“…thank you.”

 

“You’re incredible,” said John, smiling with her eyes.

 

“That’s not what people usually say.”

 

“What do people usually say?”

 

“They usually call me a bitch.”

 

Their eyes met and Sherlock grinned and John grinned and someone snorted and they both started laughing as if they’d been friends for ten years, not thirty minutes. John tossed her head back into full, inappropriate snorts, and her fringe flopped back.

 

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t laugh.”

 

“No, it’s funny.”

 

“It really isn’t.”

 

“Okay, it isn’t, but I’m used to it.”

 

John’s smile faded. “That’s awful. You’re just…you’re amazing. Why are people so awful?” She started tapping her fingers rhythmically on the table—they were longish, not as long as Sherlock’s, but still, long. Sherlock was tempted to scoot her own hand over and touch them.

 

Instead she made a full-bodied Gallic shrug and picked up her tray. “Ready?”

 

“Sure.”

 

“What do you have next?” asked Sherlock as they made their way to dump their trays out.

 

“Ah,” John set her tray down and pulled her creased timetable out of the pocket of her blazer. “German. You?”

 

“French,” said Sherlock (who had memorized her schedule the night before) with a note of disappointment. Why the fuck had she taken French? Why couldn’t she be in German with John? Idiot. Although to be fair, she’d chosen the subject five years ago, long before even the _thought_ of John had come to her.

 

“And after that?” asked John, furrowing her brow.

 

“Maths.”

 

“Biology.”

 

Sherlock frowned, not being able to say the words _I’m disappointed_ out loud. After all, though, they had Chemistry together. That was something. She stuck her tray on the conveyor and started walking out.

 

“See you tomorrow in Chemistry, genius,” said John behind her, with a wink, sliding her tray down to the cleaning station.

 

Sherlock slung her rucksack over her shoulder and looked back wistfully. “What’s your number?” she blurted out, without thinking. John, smiled, as if she’d been waiting for Sherlock to ask, pulled a sharpie out of her own bag and pushed up the sleeve of Sherlock’s blazer, writing ten digits on her pale wrist. Sherlock could feel their cool skin touching, and relished the tickle of the marker on her skin.

 

“Promise you’ll actually text me so I’ll have yours?”

 

“Promise,” said Sherlock, pulling her cuff back down. Sherlock reached out as if to shake hands, but realised that was somewhat absurd. John looked at the hand and took it. Her grip was firm.

 

“See you tomorrow, then?”

 

“Yes!”

 

It had only been a few hours, but she still couldn’t remember who’d said what.

 

 

_All I knew this morning when I woke / Is I know something now, know something now I didn’t before / All I’ve seen since eighteen hours ago / Is green eyes and freckles and your smile / In the back of my mind making me feel like / I just wanna know you better._

“I just wanna know you better,” Sherlock whispered. “I just wanna know you better, now.”

 

She smiled to herself and lost herself in the melody, mouthing the words to the ceiling, thinking of John. _All I’ve seen since six hours ago / Is blue eyes and blonde hair and your smile._ Her phone buzzed again, but she decided to save the text, whatever it was, for later. Every text John sent her was precious, beautiful, worth preserving. She scratched Redbeard under his chin.

 

“How do I get the girl, boy?” she asked, almost dreamily. He sniffed and drooled a bit. “That’s probably not the best idea,” she said with a laugh. “Drooling isn’t really considered attractive among higher primates, as good as the intention is. Canines, maybe.” Redbeard lolled his head to the side and closed his eyes, displaying his tummy as if begging to have it rubbed.

 

“You love attention, don’t you?” She still obliged him, and her mind snapped back to John almost automatically. “She is so beautiful,” she said, as if replying to an unasked question. She closed her eyes and pressed her phone to her heart, relishing that second vibration. She couldn’t wait.

 

_Message: **John Watson**_

_Where do you live?_

Sherlock typed out the answer but before she could send it, John texted again.

 

_Message: **John Watson**_

_Could I maybe come over?_

She started laughing and maybe crying, just a little bit. A friend, a real one. ( _I never saw it coming, wouldn’t have suspected it / I underestimated just who I was dealing with—_ she’d switched to ‘Speak Now’) Someone who actually wanted to spend time with her, and she was the most spectacular, gorgeous human being that Sherlock had ever met. She made a playlist and filled it with 2010s Taylor Swift, refusing to be embarrassed, even if Mycroft happened to walk in.

 

 _I never (never) saw you coming / And I’ll never (never) be the same_.

 

_I stay up too late / Got nothing in my brain / That’s what people say / That’s what people saayyy, mmm mm._

Sherlock started bobbing her head and hands, and Redbeard followed her lead.

 

She’d been so remarkable, so beautiful, so _funny,_ so _clever,_ actually clever, where so many people weren’t.

 

 _Yes, of course,_ she typed, and pressed ‘Send’. The chorus of ‘Shake It Off’ started, and without being able to help herself, she rolled off the bed and started dancing wildly, her earbuds swaying and jerking, trying not to make too much noise, but hardly being able to contain the bubble of elation that was growing inside of her.

 

 _Cos the players gonna play play play play play / And the haters_ —Mycroft!— _gonna hate hate hate hate hate, baby / I’m just gonna shake shake shake shake shake / Shake it off, shake it off!_

She pulled the elastic out of her hair and rumpled it, like John had that morning, but with poorer results. (John’s thin hair was kind of made for that. Sherlock’s thick mass of it, not so much.) She bobbed her head and flexed her wrists and elbows, moving every which way, trying to diffuse her joy just a little bit but failing miserably. Mycroft was an idiot, and he could suck it. She was in love.

 

Redbeard started jumping up and down and panting happily, obviously infected with Sherlock’s euphoria. The song ended and Sherlock flopped back down on her bed as her phone buzzed again. Redbeard took back his place on her stomach, grinning that stupid puppy grin up at her.

 

_Message: **John Watson**_

_I need your address, dumbarse._

 

She covered her enormous smile with her hand, as if someone were looking on, and took no time before replying.

 

_And that’s how it works / That’s how you get the girl._

 

**Author's Note:**

> Lyric samples, in order, are: 
> 
> Title: 'State of Grace', Taylor Swift
> 
> "Ah...insane" : 'How You Get the Girl', Taylor Swift
> 
> "All I knew...better" : 'Everything Has Changed', Taylor Swift (feat. Ed Sheeran)
> 
> "All I've seen...your smile" : Riff off of 'Everything Has Changed', ibid.
> 
> "I never saw it...dealing with" : 'Better than Revenge', Taylor Swift 
> 
> "I never (never) saw you...be the same" : 'State of Grace', Taylor Swift
> 
> "I stay up...mmm mm" : 'Shake It Off', Taylor Swift
> 
> "Cos the players...shake it off!" ibid.
> 
> "And that's how...the girl" 'How You Get the Girl', Taylor Swift


End file.
